


Small Mercies

by violentdarlings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse world, F/M, Gen, Season/Series 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22208878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: A reunion is still a reunion even if she's *really* not happy to see you.
Relationships: Arthur Ketch/Mary Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Small Mercies

When he sees her, in one of the Resistance camps, her hair glinting in the weak sunlight and her familiar voice bellowing to a line of marksmen that they can’t aim worth a damn and _does she need to get Jack out here –_

“No, ma’am!” they chorus back at her. There is something tight and painful in Arthur’s chest, like a small burrowing creature has taken up residence. She is incandescent, and quite possibly the most terrifying thing Arthur can remember seeing in his life.

He hangs back a little. It’s very likely he’ll get shot in the head again when she sees him.

Mary paces down the line of shooters and turns sharply on her heel. Arthur tenses at the sight of her face, streaked a little with dirt; her jacket, dusty against the black. Her eyes, narrowing in disbelief. Well. What he hopes is _just_ disbelief.

Mary strides away from the training area like she’s coming over to conquer a war. “Arthur Ketch,” she says, when she’s close enough for him to hear. “Do the Men of Letters exist in this world too, then?”

 _Oh._ She thinks he’s the – the alternate reality’s version of himself.

“Dean sends his regards,” Arthur tells her through a throat gone tight, and watches Mary Winchester light up from the inside out.

“Dean…” she murmurs in wonder. “Oh, my God.” Arthur gives her a cheery little wave. It’s handy to disguise how the sight of her tears holes in him like he’s stepped on a mine.

“Hello, Mary,” he says, just like before, and that’s when she punches him.

“Ow,” he says pointedly, half an hour later. Mary had had someone strip him down almost to his damn skin to remove every weapon on his person – all thirty-seven of them, down to the micro-grenades sewn into the lining of his jacket and the knives he keeps in his boot-tops. He’s given rough clothes to wear, little more than sackcloth stitched into trousers and shirt, and he’s allowed to keep his own socks. Small mercies.

“You deserved it,” Mary says. She has him in what passes as an interrogation room in this dreadful place; it’s barely the size of a broom closet, freezing cold, and strongly scented with mildew. “I shot you. Blew your brains out. How the hell are you still alive?” Arthur smirks at her, despite his throbbing nose from the punch and the painful cheek from the following slap. Not to mention he’s barely healed from the royal arse-kicking he received from Asmodeus. The things he does for these bloody Winchesters.

“Resurrection tends to be your family’s purview alone, I know,” he replies, testing his bonds thoughtfully. She’s bound him to a chair, this marvellous woman. “But the rest of us mere mortals can have a stake in it too, I think you’ll find.” Mary raises her fist threateningly. Arthur doesn’t even flinch. He hardly minds the pain. It’s a small price to pay for her hands on him.

“Where’s Dean?” she demands. “And – Sam?” The hope in her voice almost kills him all over again. Arthur himself has forgotten what hope feels like. It was drummed out of him in Kendrick’s.

“Dean and I came through a rift six days ago, on a recon mission,” he replies, the chair creaking as he flexes against his bonds again. “Dean returned – the rift lasts only twenty-four hours. I stayed to offer my assistance to Charlie Bradbury and the Resistance.” Mary’s eyes narrow.

“I don’t believe you,” she snaps. “Altruism isn’t your style, Ketch. Or the Men of Letters’ style either, come to think of it.” Arthur arches an eyebrow at her.

“I am no longer aligned with the Men of Letters,” he informs her. “Dean has returned to gather what forces he can to make a difference against Michael. I don’t know when he’ll return, or where he’ll come through. I remained.”

“ _Why?”_ Mary demands, her eyes blazing. “Why would you stay?” Arthur smiles up at her. It may be the most genuine expression of his life.

“Can’t you imagine?” he asks, and holds her eyes until she turns away.


End file.
